


you're dangerous, don't know which way to move

by dahdeemohn



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 05:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12336102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dahdeemohn/pseuds/dahdeemohn
Summary: Corey's phone is dead and it's pouring out. Elias offers shelter from the storm.





	you're dangerous, don't know which way to move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kiddos, no sex in this chapter as it's all set up, but uh
> 
> it's gonna get wild after this

A comment from Tom made earlier in the evening was still weighed heavy on Corey’s mind as he stared down at his glass of shit-tier whiskey at the shit-tier bar he found himself in. From where he sat, he could see moths drawn to an overhead light, impossible to keep out as the door seemed to be in a steady flux of opening and closing on that hot Wednesday night, their bumbling not unlike the thoughts that ricocheted around in his skull.

“Fuck Tom,” Corey muttered. “I’m totally personable.” 

It had happened during a match with Elias, where Corey perhaps spat a bit too much venom in the drifter’s direction, to the point that Tom was taken aback by the comment. Whatever, Elias was a dick and no one cared about him, and Corey was just pointing out the obvious; besides, who goes to a wrestling event to hear some loser do a poor rendition of Wonderwall? As Corey amused himself with the mental image of the next NXT show devolving into a comedy skit where an angry crowd hurled rotten tomatoes to show their displeasure, he motioned that it was OK for the bartender to refill his glass.

The 80s power ballads that played over the speakers died down, and was replaced by the twang of a guitar string, followed by another, and Corey’s nose scrunched up as he attempted to discern whether or not this was some sort of practical joke. He turned his head towards the source of noise, and towards the back of the room sat none other than Elias Samson himself, perched atop a barstool and focused on his guitar. After a few more plucks and subsequent tuning, a quick chord was strummed and he nodded to himself. Attention turned to the microphone stand, which was adjusted to match his height, then tapped on twice with his index finger. Corey pulled out his wallet in anticipation, ready to get the hell out of Dodge before Elias could start, but it was too late; he'd leaned forward and made a simple introduction into the mic, then began to strum. 

Admittedly, it wasn't bad, either.

The first ditty was more upbeat than anything Corey had heard Elias play before, something akin to a Lyle Lovett song, but as a precaution the wallet was kept out on the countertop. A few songs passed, Corey's drink finally finished, and the bartender collected his tab. Yet he hung around, away from the bar and sticking to the shadows of the room, away from Elias' line of sight. There simply wasn't anywhere, better or worse, that Corey could have been right now, or so he told himself. 

Watching Elias play his guitar was a whole different experience from watching him perform in the ring, and from Corey’s location, he had the opportunity to observe without getting caught. It was almost jarring to see Elias with a serene expression, no trace of aggression or the usual wild-eyed stare that was reserved for his opponents. Gently he crooned while he plucked away at a few repeating chords, covering an old folk song that existed somewhere in the back of Corey’s brain, inaccessible and something only ever heard these days on pirate radios in grainy quality. It made sense that someone as odd as Samson would have picked up some forgotten musical lore somewhere in his travels, although Corey didn’t know why that thread of logic made any sense to begin with was so definitive for him.

Eventually Elias wrapped up his set, giving humble thanks to the patrons and cautiously setting his guitar down next to the barstool so that he could get up. While change was collected from the guitar case and counted out, Corey went against his better judgement and stepped out of the shadows to approach the drifter with a dollar bill in hand. Without trying to draw attention to himself, Corey casually dropped it into the case and went to walk away, but was stopped by a low, “Graves.”

“Samson.” Corey attempted to sneer, but the tone was more subdued than intended, and he could feel Elias’ eyes on him. Despite the buzz of chatter in the bar, the silent tension between the two men engulfed them entirely and drowned out every other noise. What seemed like an eternity had passed before finally Corey had cleared his throat and muttered a “Well anyways-” as he turned to walk away.

“Corey,” Elias’ voice rang clear, further scrambling all remaining auditory reception clarity, and Corey looked back at him over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

A snort was the response Corey gave, an automatic reflex when faced with the prospect of someone else’s gratitude or anything else that may give away that he possessed the capability to show some form of human empathy or sympathy. With haste he moved through the crowd to the front door, throwing it open and greeted by a light rain outside. The buzz from the whiskey still in effect, so shelter was taken under the awning fixed atop the bar’s windows and he absently watched cars as they drove by. 

As Corey’s brain swam and he focused on trying to sober up, irritated with himself for getting distracted and not having the foresight to request a glass of water before he left, he hadn’t noticed that he was no longer alone until a soft humming broke his concentration. He looked to his right, and of course there stood the drifter himself, damp haired and broad-shouldered with guitar case in hand and wearing too many damn scarves for the Florida humidity. They remained like that for several minutes, rain growing heavier and loud _plop_ s could be heard as fatter drops hit the awning above them. From the corner of his eye, Corey watched Elias brush away a few strands of hair from his forehead and tucked them behind his ear. As each second dragged on, Corey’s level of discomfort and irritation swelled, until it grew unbearable and he weakly snapped out, “What? What do you want?!”

Elias propped the guitar case against the wall behind them and turned his head to coolly examined Corey, which did nothing to aid the situation, and finally their eyes met. “You got a ride, Graves?”

“Yeah,” Corey lied, as he hadn’t yet pulled up his Lyft app, and as he went to do exactly that he noticed that the battery was reduced to a red sliver. “None of your business, though.”

“Hm.” Elias nodded in agreement, casually lifting his arms above his head to stretch and causing the hem of the bottom of his t-shirt to ride up a little. “Guess not. Just seems like you shouldn’t be out on the road right now.”

Just when the app was selected and started to load, the screen went black and battery icon flashed several times. _Fuck_ was muttered several times under Corey’s breath as he tried to will his phone to turn itself back on, but to no avail. Panic began to bubble in his throat, the slight intoxication only making it worse, and when he looked back up Elias was already half way down the street. Tearing down the street after him, Corey shouted "Elias! Wait!", causing the drifter to stop in his tracks and turn around and stare quizzically, until he caught up and wheezed out "Hey, hold on!"

"Rain's picking up, Graves," Elias grumbled as he pushed more hair out of his eyes.

"No shit," Corey snapped instinctively, then took a deep breath to even out his tone. "You live far from here? My phone died and-"

"What about your ride?"

"Not gonna make it." The lie was painfully obvious, and the way Elias stared made it clear that he knew. Corey impatiently waited for a 'fuck off' or some other dismissive gesture that wouldn't have been underserved, but Elias just shrugged and hitched his thumb over his shoulder.

"C'mon. It's another block this way." Elias continued to walk and Corey dutifully followed, silence yet again permeating the space between them. Eventually, they reached a long row of apartments. The rumble of thunder now in the distance, and Elias made haste in climbing up a small concrete staircase and unlocking the door at the top of them. After Corey was inside, Elias bolted the door behind them and then turned away, each footstep heavy against the hardwood floors. 

Elias disappeared into the next room, and moments later light flooded through the doorway. Corey instinctively made his way towards it, not unlike the moths that he saw earlier at the bar. As the corner was rounded and he found himself in a kitchen, he took a moment to look around and was shocked to find that Elias occupied an actual apartment and not a van or storage unit. Eyes settled on the other side of the room, where there was another open doorway; in it stood Elias, peeling his shirt off and over his head. 

He knew that he was staring, knew damn well that he shouldn’t even look, but Corey couldn’t tear his eyes away. There was abrupt clarity, as if sobriety had hit him like a lightning bolt. If he could will himself to move, he would have ran out the door, but he stood transfixed but the wet curls of hair and thick torso and damp skin.

“Graves?” Elias’ raspy voice cut through, which did almost nothing to alleviate this predicament; Core glances upwards, and he could feel himself involuntarily lick his lips as their eyes met. Then, slowly, a step was taken towards him. And another, and more until the space between them was no more than a few inches. Perspiration started to form at Corey’s hairline, and he swallowed hard. The corner of Elias’ mouth twitched, and he leaned in enough so that Corey could smell the musk of his cologne and sweat. “What're you staring at?”


End file.
